“But where do you stay?”
“Where I can. I generally walk about the streets in the daytime; and, when I feel cold, I go into some store to warm myself. They don’t always let me stay long. They call me ragged, and a beggar. I suppose,” she continued, casting a glance at her thin dress, which in some places was torn and dirty from long wearing,—“I suppose it’s all true; but I can’t help it.”
“Where do you think of going to-night?” asked Martin, abruptly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t any place to go to; and it’s very cold. Won’t you let me stay here?” asked the child, imploringly.
The miser started.
“How can you stay here? Here is only one room, and this I occupy.”
“Let me lie down on the floor, anywhere. It will be better than to go out into the cold streets.”
The miser paused. Even he, callous as his heart had become, would not willingly thrust out a young girl into the street, where in all probability, unless succor came, she would perish from the severity of the weather.
After a little consideration, he took the fragment of a candle which was burning on the table, and, bidding Floy follow him, led the way into a room near by, which was quite destitute of furniture, save a small cot-bed in the corner. It had been left there when Martin Kendrick first took possession of the house, and had remained undisturbed ever since. A quilt, which, though tattered, was still thick and warm, was spread over it.
“There,” said Martin, pointing it out to Floy, who followed him closely,—“there is a bed. It hasn’t been slept on for a great many years; but I suppose it will do as well as any other. You can sleep there, if you want to.”